


A Fragment

by NTheSeventh



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: F/F, I'm not sure why that last one is in all caps, Not that anybody here would know, On my CamCor BS but sadder than usual, Pining vaguely, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:54:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26419057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NTheSeventh/pseuds/NTheSeventh
Relationships: Camilla Hect/Coronabeth Tridentarius
Kudos: 26





	A Fragment

There’s only one bed, but then again, for all your size, you never learned how to take up more than half a bed. As a princess, you certainly aren’t going to sleep on the floor. You think Camilla would, if you asked her to, but you’re not going to ask her to. _Noblesse oblige_ and all that. Doesn’t change the fact that you know so little of her. What you _do_ know of the Cavalier Primary of the Sixth is that like you, she has lost the largest piece of her life, that she is very good at what she does, and that she is one of the few people you’ve met who does not look at you like a shiny bauble that they would dearly love to wear about their neck.

It’s a problem, the not-knowing. The minute you saw her in action, you wanted to know her better. In a kinder world, you could have watched her go up against all the other cavaliers there in exhibition, probably without anyone getting their knees broken. In the world you live in, though, you couldn’t look away from the grease fire made of blades that had all but consumed the Second. Nor from her grimly set jaw when your sister sent Babs to challenge her. Even then, a part of you suspected she could have taken him with that kitchen knife and her wounded right arm as good as tied behind her back. Still wasn’t fair. Still wasn’t right. And you could do nothing.

You try to ask her anything, but those words get stuck halfway from brain to mouth, just like they did then, as if Ianthe’s hand were still pulling your strings. She’d only force you to dance out of love, of course. She’d always made sure to tell you that. What kind of a sister would she be otherwise? The kind she is now, with the strings cut and the love gone into the river, you suppose, drawing back from the thought of it.

“I’m sorry,” you say, as the Sixth settles beside you like a drift of ashes. It seems terribly inadequate. _I’m sorry I was too weak to stand up for you. I’m sorry I’m useless. I’m sorry you got stuck with me at the end of it all. I’m sorry you lost everything that really mattered to you. I’m sorry for myself._

She’s so close. Ridiculously, hopelessly, you want to reach out and touch her.


End file.
